


All Of Me For All Of You

by hellhoundsprey



Series: ficlet prompts [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Biting, Blood, Breathplay, Choking, Codependency, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 15:36:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7058542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: wincest x biting/breathplay<br/>Again, this went quite... dark places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Of Me For All Of You

In his life - so far - Sam got choked more often than he has been getting a medically acceptable amount of sleep. Or had a relationship longer than a few days that didn't end up in utter tragedy.

So, naturally, he should hate it, right? Should hate the weight and pressure of hands around his throat, should get up his mental walls once his lungs start protesting. Should hate it, avoid it.

Shouldn't be asking for it with his knees all weak. That seems clear. But it's what happens. Sometimes. When it's all too much. Or when Dean's had too much. More or less the same; seems like they are their own little universe sometimes, ecosystem that needs to be corrected. Chakras are real. Energies are real. That's science. Sam understands science, and the fact that it can give him an explanation for how his brother and him work leaves him in heartshaken awe.

Dean's hands are just right. Made for this, or maybe exactly _not_ this; held Sam from when he was one year old, kept him safe, kept him sane, fed, alive.

But worlds collide and souls break and people die and _we can't save everyone, Sammy._

The white in Dean's eyes has been tinted blue from the neon light outside but now gets frayed out into the all consuming black of the room, of the night, maybe the world. Sam doesn't mind, it doesn't matter, because his brother is here with him and holds him tight.

Dean has that certain way of circling Sam's throat just right. Digs his fingertips in just right. So much strength. These fingers fired shotguns before they touched a middle school's booklist.

Sam's lungs gasps and his chest seizes, out of his control, and if the world outside was ending right now, Sam couldn't hear it over the hammering of his own blood in his ears.

He knows Dean is watching. Watches closely. (Probably counts. Sam never asked how he does it, how he knows. _I just **know**_ , he would say, probably. Would shrug, turn away again, flip through another newspaper, other obituaries.) Sam has never felt as safe as with his life hanging on a thread spun around his brother's finger.

The rush when he lets go. The oxygen flooding in, burning, expanding lung tissue to the point where it's impossibly painful, worse than the lack itself, and Sam's voice jumps and his eyes fly open wide just in time to see Dean lunging forward and down - to him.

Hell changed Dean. They are over the worst now, but it's undeniable. Not that anything could ever drive Sam away from Dean. Ecosystem. One adapts.

The sensation of teeth tearing through skin and then into flesh lets Sam's deprived nerves overload. Everything blocks even though his trachea is free and he keeps on gasping, keeps hauling for air without getting any.

Dean's deeply satisfied groan races through every single one of Sam's molecules.

When being let go, he feels shoved away, discarded, for these horrible seconds Dean doesn't have his hands on him, is only straddling Sam’s stomach with his hands supporting him somewhere above Sam's head. He tries to choke for _Dean_ , to call out, anything, but nothing comes out. The pain in his neck keeps pulsing, sharp like needles, knives.

When Dean finally comes back, Sam can taste his own blood on his brother's tongue.

Sam should hate blood by now. Should loathe it, never touch it again, retch from a single hint of copper in anything.

But, he thinks, wouldn't Dean's blood taste just like this?

Related by blood. The same.

Dean would give him every last drop if Sam only asked.

The world is shifting in place. Some pains stay, others fade into the blue, the black. They can come back and they _will_ come back. Just a matter of time. They can never outrun them.

Dean, who has finally more or less caught his own breath, murmurs, "I'll do it right next time."

"Hm?"

"I'll look it up," Dean says, a little louder now. His eyes are on Sam, always are, in that familiar, calm peacefulness. "Wanted to get your throat, Sammy, not the goddamn neck. Panicked though. 've got nothin' here to stitch up a damn artery."

Sam returns the gaze. Thinks for a while. Then corrects, "Carotid."

"Carrot, artery, whatever; fuck you. I'm not lettin' you fuckin' bleed to death in fuckin' New Jersey."

Dean is too busy getting up and raiding their bags for his toothbrush to watch Sam mouthing

_where **then** , Dean?_


End file.
